


No Plan

by a_platypus



Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Canon Era, Fever, Fever Dreams, Fluff and Angst, Forehead Kisses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, References to Illness, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic, Vomiting, the term bed is being generous in this case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-24
Updated: 2020-10-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27176920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_platypus/pseuds/a_platypus
Summary: Blakefield Kisstober 2020: Day 25, Sick kissesWill's sick but doesn't want Tom to worry - or worse - catch the illness himself.Tom can't figure out what he's done that's so wrong that Will would respond by pretending he doesn't even exist.
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56
Collections: Blakefield Kisstober 2020





	No Plan

Something was wrong with Scho.

At first, Tom thought he was simply having another one of his bad weeks.

He had those, sometimes.

A series of sleepless nights that left him irritable and hypervigilant throughout the day. Times he’d pull away and isolate himself. Revert back to the dead-eyed recluse Tom had first met.

This though, was different.

The last couple of days Tom had been either left behind or hidden from. And when that neither of those options were possible, Scho reverted to giving him the silent treatment.

The weird thing Tom had noticed though, was that Scho had developed some strange aversion to touching him. Wouldn’t even get within three feet of him. Which was an impressive feat in of itself - being cramped between two narrow walls of mud with hundreds of other men didn't exactly allow for spacious living quarters.

Tom didn’t know what to make of the sudden change. Even the men in their company could tell something between them had shifted. Unfortunate, considering he didn't have an answer when people came for him, asking him what had happened.

Tom hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Scho all morning. Just another day of Scho avoiding him, though he didn’t have a clue how he'd managed to illicit such a response.

Scho was known for being fairly patient. Was even a joke among the men that he had to be, dealing with Tom at his side on a daily basis. So, having the man disappear completely must have been quite the grand cock-up on his end.

Tom only wished he knew what he'd done.

The not knowing was worse. Without any direct evidence to point to, Tom could assume that perhaps he'd just gotten sick of looking after him. Tired of carrying around this leech he couldn’t shake.

Tom wanted to help. Wished he could be of more use. He didn't mean to be someone else’s responsibility.

He was a Lance Corporal for god’s sake. Equals in all except experience.

His thoughts were interrupted when he spotted the man in question - his weight slumped against the wall and his helmet tipped down over his face.

Scho must’ve not noticed Tom’s approach, because he easily slotted into place beside him, out of the way from the traffic of soldiers moving through the passage.

It was a little strange then - when even sidled up next to him, Scho failed to respond.

He ducked down, peering beneath his helmet, and was met with closed eyes and a slack face.

As glad as he was that Scho was finally finding some time for some much-needed rest, it struck him as odd. A lot of the men were known for dozing off – taking naps where and when they could throughout the day, but as far as Tom knew, Scho wasn’t one of them.

“Hey.”

When he received no response, he nudged him in the side with a gentle elbow.

"Scho." He called.

Scho’s breathing hitched before his eyes slowly cracked open.

He lifted his head, his hand coming up to push his helmet from his face. His gaze met Tom’s, and he blinked. It seemed to take him a moment to register who he was, made evident by the fact that when once he had, he inched himself away, tension returning to his expression.

Tom tried to not feel too hurt by that.

“What’re you doing here?” Scho muttered, voice rough and scratchy from sleep.

Tom wasn't very successful.

The question only managed to expand the terrible, dark pit roiling at bottom of his stomach.

_Since when have I needed a reason?_

The response was swift and cutting.

_Since he decided he’d had enough of you. Just another scrap of evidence to add to the growing pile of proof that he doesn’t want you around anymore._

He swallowed the thoughts down. He was here to prove his worth. Not pity himself.

Tom shoved his hands into his pockets and put on his brightest smile. A beam of radiance that Joe – regardless of Tom’s transgression – failed to scowl at.

“I brought you something.” He said, pulling the item from his pocket.

Scho’s brows pulled together, though he remained silent as he watched Tom turn away from the passing soldiers, shielding his hands from view as he open his handkerchief to reveal a sizeable chunk of bread. It was the good stuff, too - crisp outer crust with a soft inner texture. That yeasty aroma that somehow smelled warm. Fresh as you could get in the trenches.

Scho’s eyes darted nervously from the bread to their surroundings before settling on Tom. “Where did you get that?” He hissed.

Tom’s smile faltered.

“Traded it with Bromlin for a tin of tobacco.”

Scho’s frown deepened.

“Right. And where’d he get it, then?”

Tom paused.

He hadn’t thought to ask. Didn’t think it mattered. Good food was good food. Here, you took what you could get, no questions asked.

Scho observed his hesitance to answer and dragged a hand down his face.

“You don’t know.” He mumbled to himself. “Of course you don’t know.”

Tom balked. He hadn’t expected for all to be forgiven with such a small offering, but he’d hoped for at least a thank you. He certainly hadn’t anticipated for this reaction.

Scho straightened, addressing him more directly, “You should get rid of it.”

“What? Why?”

Feeling more than a little spurned by Scho’s rejection of his offering, Tom first instinct was to argue with him - which ran somewhat counterintuitive to the whole point of getting a peace offering in the first place.

Scho eyed the bread – suddenly feeling far weightier in Tom’s hand. “Men don’t just give away good food.”

“He didn’t give it away. I _traded_ it.” Tom pointed out. “Besides, you give me your food.”

Scho shook his head, frustrated. “That’s different.”

“How is that different?”

“Lance Corporal!” A firm tone called from behind him, and they both froze.

Tom caught one glimpse of Scho’s wide-eyed expression and knew with a shot of dread that there was no getting out of this. He turned slowly, smuggled food exposed for all to see, to face his Lieutenant, feeling much the part of a naughty schoolboy caught red-handed by his homeroom teacher.

“Thomas. Blake.” He enunciated his name with a deliberateness that was followed near-always by _why am I not surprised?_

The Lieutenant’s scrutinizing gaze raked over him coolly, and Tom tried his best to not wither away beneath it.

“May I ask how you attained that?” He asked, gesturing to the bread in his hand.

“Traded it with one of the men.” Tom answered, careful to keep his explanation vague and clipped, if not close to the truth as possible.

“That’s odd. Last night I returned to my quarters to find a couple pieces of my inventory missing. Including a bottle of rum, and the better half of my rations.”

_Shit._

Tom felt Scho go stiff as a board behind him, and the both of them were rendered silent.

“You two wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“No sir.” They replied in tandem.

“Hm.” He hummed with a thin-lipped skepticism. He waited a beat, eyes narrowed, then opened his hand out.

Blake stared at it dumbly, before his brain kicked into gear and he relinquished the bread to the Lieutenant.

He took it and rewrapped it, eyes not even on them when he ordered offhandedly. “Sapping duty. The both of you.”

Tom’s heart dropped. Saps were dug out along the front line, into No Man’s Land, and though their purpose was to be able to extend towards the enemy without being in danger of fire, it didn’t rule out the risk altogether. “Sir, with all due respect, Schofield had nothing to do with-

“You say another word Blake,” The Lieutenant interrupted, icy gaze pulling him back into line, “And you’ll be cleaning out the latrines for a month.”

Tom opened his mouth, choked back his half-formed defence, then closed it.

He nodded towards the front on the line. “On your way, then Lance Corporals. We don’t have all day.”

\---------------

Tom followed Scho’s brisk pace through the crowd of soldiers. He had yet to say a word to Tom, but it was easy enough to read into the stiff line of his shoulders.

He’d been trying to fix whatever it was he’d done to piss Scho off. And in doing so, he’d only managed to make matters worse.

Now that he thought about it, one tin of tobacco seemed a small price to pay for the quality and quantity of food he’d been offered. He should’ve known there was something off about the deal.

Scho’s words from earlier resonated between his ears with each heavy step. _You don’t know… Of course you don’t know._ He never knew. And now he’d brought Scho into his mess, again.

Tom waited for it. The _I told you so_.

It never came.

That small voice at the back of his mind, though – that returned with a vengeance.

_Brilliant, Tom. Not only have you forced Scho into your company, you’ve also gone ahead and gotten him stuck digging out trenches during his break due to your dim-wittedness. This is why he doesn’t want to be around you, you knobheaded twit. You’re more trouble than you’re worth._

And though he loathed their self-pitying and self-deprecative nature, the words rung true.

Reaching an intersection, they waited as a wave of soldiers passed down the support trench. Tom chanced a glance towards Scho. Examined the paleness of his face, the dead-tired set of his eyes and the deep-set crinkles around his eyebrows and forehead.

He looked exhausted.

“I’m sorry.”

Scho’s gaze dropped to him for a moment, surprised, before it returned to the men passing in front of them. He sighed.

It wasn’t an irritated noise. He wasn’t exasperated. Tom would’ve preferred Scho boil over and scream at him, but he didn’t show a single sign of being outwardly upset. He just seemed… drained.

Tom could deal with frustration. He could cope with Scho’s anger. It was the lack of any emotion at all that made the hurt worse.

\---------------

It had all begun one morning with Will feeling a little more worn out than usual. A slight headache. Throat a bit scratchy. A short list of symptoms that were hardly out of the ordinary and were more than easy to overlook. Concern didn’t come until the dull throb behind his eyes amplified to a splitting migraine. And from there it quickly spiralled into dizziness, aching bones, and a deep, unrelenting exhaustion.

Will had been sick for well over a week now, and there was little evidence he’d miraculously return to good health any time soon. He hadn’t told Blake. God knows they had enough worries to occupy the mind. He didn’t need another.

There was also the unfortunate fact that if he did tell him, Blake would be hesitant to leave his side.

Will refused the mere possibility of becoming a vector for Tom’s pain. It seemed that the best way to ensure that, was coping with this alone until the issue – one way or another – was resolved.

There was only one problem with this tactic – starting and ending with Blake’s dogged persistence in tracking him down and sticking to him like glue.

There were only so many places you could hide in the trenches, and Will had exhausted near every one of them.

Not to mention, the past day or two Will had been feeling worse than ever, with even the simplest of activities sapped what little energy he had in reserve.

He would often lose time, finding himself dead asleep on his feet. Exactly how Blake had found him. And now he’d condemned the man to an extended period of time at the front of the line, stuck doing manual labour in the close quarters of the sap trench, in danger of both artillery fire and exposure to the biohazard risk working beside him.

It was early spring, though Will wouldn’t know it from any sense of temperature. All he could focus on was the heat of the sun bearing down upon him, his skin dotted with sweat, even as chills racked his body.

They’d been quietly digging for little over an hour now – a stretch of silence which Will thinks may be a new record for Blake, though he could feel his gaze at the back of his head more than once.

Will didn't commented on it. More focused on his migraine, creeping up in intensity with each thrust of his shovel into hard soil – the pain radiating from his temples and blurring the world around him.

His muscles were weak and aching, and it wasn’t long before Will felt his façade of strength crumbling before him.

He slammed his shovel into the ground and rested against it in an attempt to slow the world spinning around him.

Will swallowed down the urge to hurl. He pressed his head against the shovel handle – trying to ground himself with something tangible until the swirling stopped.

“Scho?” 

He straightened to attention, then proceeded to sway so violently Blake jerked forward to catch him.

Will panicked the moment Tom’s skin brush against his own.

“ _Don’t_.”

Will was tired, and agitated, and felt fucking terrible, and all of this compounded into it all coming out far harsher than he had meant for.

Blake flinched, retreating as quickly as he came to his aid.

Will cringed inwardly, guilt flooding his chest. He only had to take one look at Blake’s expression before his gaze was forced back to the ground, unable to face the twist of confusion and hurt he found there.

“You weren’t answering.” Blake explained, voice small.

“Didn’t hear.” Will swallowed back at the bile rising in his throat.

He hadn’t even realised he’d been talking – the throbbing between his ears making it hard to concentrate or comprehend any external stimuli.

“Sorry.”

Blake eyed him down for a beat before he turned away and returned to his digging.

“S’alright…” He replied, confidence gradually returning to his voice. “Was just saying that it could be worse.”

Will humoured him, if only to dispel the tension that’d ballooned between them. “How so?”

Blake shrugged.

“Could be fixing the wires again.”

“Hm.”

Will supposed he could agree with that. At least here, they weren’t at risk of taking any pot shots from Boche snipers.

Blake was quiet for a moment, but Will got the sense that the conversation was far from over.

Will could practically feel Blake’s need to question further emanating off of him like heat from his skin. And the longer Will rested against his bloody shovel, the greater Blake’s itch to ask grew.

The inevitable came sooner than Will had hoped.

Blake’s shovelling slowed, then stopped completely, before he turned back to him.

Blake caught his gaze and held it.

“Are you alright?” He asked, the gentle lilt of his voice a heavy weight on Will’s chest.

Will wilted under his concerned gaze, eyes averting to a particularly interesting pile of dirt by his boots.

He offered a noncommittal noise, neither an affirmation nor dispute of Blake’s accusation.

Blake worried at his lip. “It’s only… You haven’t been acting yourself lately.”

Will played dumb.

“What do you mean?”

This only managed to irk Blake, knuckles going white from the tight grip he had around his shovel.

Will had expected this. Anticipated it, even. There was only so long he would be able to turn a blind eye to his own disregard for Tom before the resentment boiled over. 

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I got us stuck on trench duty, and I’m sorry for whatever it is I’ve done that’s made you not want to be within two feet of me.”

_What?_

Will’s heart plunged. If he hadn’t felt like an ass before, he sure as hell did now.

He exhaled a long, slow breath of air.

“It’s not your fault.”

Blake dropped his shovel, letting it clatter dramatically to the ground. “Then what’s your problem?”

Will stared resolutely at the half-dug passage in front of him, though he still felt Blake’s eyes on him. Still felt the frustration and hurt radiating off of him.

His stomach was churning; the heaviness of his tongue a tell-tale sign that he needed to leave, quickly, or vomit up what bile was left in his stomach onto Blake’s shoes.

“I need to take a piss.” He muttered, using the wall to push himself away.

“What?” Blake frowned, “Scho-”

Whatever Blake intended to say, Will didn’t hear, already having turned tail, escaping through the crowd of huddled soldiers.

He shoulder-checked a couple of men in his hurry, who responded mostly with a glare, one of them yelling out, “Steady on mate!”

He didn’t dare look back, unsure of whether he was more fearful of Blake’s pursuit, or the reprimand of whoever was in charge of monitoring their punishment.

He hadn’t a destination in mind, only that it was as far from the front line as possible.

At one point, he failed to spot a soldier, laid out across the ground asleep. Will tripped over the man’s legs – who cursed vehemently - and only barely managed to keep himself on two feet. Though the effort for doing so had his dizziness return with a renewed vigour. Will closed his eyes against it, but that only seemed to amplify the inertia.

By the time he turned a corner, the churning pain is his stomach rose to a fire in his chest, and before Will could really process the fact that he was about to throw up, it was happening.

The force of the retching burned the back of his throat and intensified the blinding agony in his head.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that – crouched over a puddle of his own sick, but when he finally looked up, he met the eyes of a half dozen men. Their expressions scaling between concern and disgust.

One of the men raised his arms placatingly, like he was a startled horse in need of calming. He was vaguely aware of someone asking him a question, but Will wasn’t listening.

His fight against gravity as he straightened was a battle in of itself.

The group parted when he went to stumble away, and from there the world churned into nothing more than a nauseating haze of colours. Objects were blurs, people were shadows.

He needed to get out. Escape it all.

When the image of the old oak tree behind the trenches came to mind, he didn’t question it. Simply put his head down and made a beeline towards it, trusting his instincts more than his presence of mind to get him there.

Somehow, he managed to make it. Away from the noise and the people and most importantly from anyone that might try and interrogate him about his health.

Will collapsed beneath the tree and removed his helmet, allowing his head to rest against the solid oak.

A breeze passed through the leaves overhead, and relief swept through him as the crisp air met his skin.

\---------------

Will was welcomed back to the conscious world by a pulsing ache between his ears and the sensation full-bodied shivers racking his body.

He squinted into the sun, realizing as he let his eyes fall shut again that it'd dropped closer to the horizon.

He was doing it again. Losing time.

He was vaguely aware that this indicated his fever was taking a turn for the worse. That he should probably move and find someplace warm before the sun set and he froze to death. But the consequences be damned - he found himself stubbornly curling tighter around himself, unwilling to face the world.

His eyes shot open when he felt a cool hand press to his forehead.

Will’s vision filled with Blake, crouched down beside him, his brows pulled together into a concerned furrow.

For a moment, his addled thoughts were comforted by his presence. The touch-starved and wanton side of him revelling in the gentle pressure against his head. That was, until reality forced its way back to the forefront of his mind.

He swatted away Blake’s hand, but it was too late. Not only was Blake in close proximity, he was likely going to be able to deduce the truth from how shit Will looked right now.

“You're burning up, Scho.”

Will took a breath, and managed a quiet, controlled tone. “I’m fine. Your hands are just cold.”

It was a weak rebuttal - an obvious lie, even to his own ears.

He stood to Blake’s level, too quickly. Blake took hold of his arm, and the sudden way Will tugged down almost had them both on the ground.

Blake steadied him.

“You’re fine, huh?”

Taking strength from Blake’s strong grip around his arm, Will breathed until his spotted vision cleared, then, as much as it pained him to do so, shrugged Blake off. Withdrew back into himself. 

“You should keep your distance.” He said, though he was too exhausted to put any real force behind the words.

Blake examined him; expression perplexed. Then, it was as if a light behind his eyes was set alight. The pieces clicked into place. And he understood.

“You’re sick.”

As much as Will rather Blake not know, he didn’t try and contradict the accusation.

“Hold on, this… This is why you’ve been avoiding me?” He asked, somehow managing to sound simultaneously relieved and appalled.

Will’s gaze dropped to the ground.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He didn’t have an answer for Blake.

Or, more accurately, didn’t have an answer that was neither terribly condescending nor altogether too revealing for how he felt towards him.

There was a tense moment of quiet, then a canteen was thrust towards Will, stopping just short of a few inches from his face.

Will blinked, his eyes moving from the canteen to Blake’s face.

His expression was neutral of malice or rage. Brows pulled together more a show of concern than it was anger.

“Take it.” He prompted.

“What?” Will stared dumbly.

Did Blake not understand? Surely he’d seen what had happened to the others that’d been afflicted with illness. They’d both played their part in the past week alone burying men that had died from neither bullet nor shrapnel.

When Will failed to accept the canteen, he shook it before his eyes.

“You finished yours two hours ago. And by the look of things, you’ve probably sweated it all out already.”

Will rose an eyebrow.

“I can’t.” He stated.

Blake snorted. “Oh, sod off – you don’t even know if you’re contagious, do you?”

Will glared at him. Truth have it, he couldn’t be sure. But he wasn’t in the game of risking these kinds of things.

His face broke out into a shaky smile in an obvious attempt for nonchalance. “Besides, I’m a born-and-bred farm boy.” He waved a hand dismissively. “We don’t get sick.”

Will was fairly certain the phrase was a play on the fact that farmers really couldn’t _afford_ to get sick, rather than the occupation being an outright immunity in itself, though he doubted Blake was being purposely remiss to avoid saying so.

Blake was going about this more with the confidence and care-free attitude of a man unacquainted with loss. Will actually didn’t know how he managed to keep it up, living day-to-day in this hell. Still wasn’t sure if it was a front, or if he was just that naïve.

“This is serious, Blake.”

Blake’s expression lost some of its lightness and the flask dropped.

“You think I don’t know that?” He looked Will up and down, bewildered. “What do you expect me to do, Scho? Leave you to suffer this out alone?”

Will’s jaw tightened, his face hardening. Blake observed this, slowly realising that, yes - that was exactly what Will expected him to do.

“This isn’t a place for sentimentality.” Will grinded out.

For some reason, that of all things seemed to hit a nerve with Blake, and Will saw him flinch – the most minute action – but a flinch all the same. Suddenly he looked a little smaller, a little less sure of himself, and Will wished he hadn't said anything at all.

Blake stared at him for a beat, and just like that, the moment passed.

His eyes lit up with a renewed determination, and he dropped his canteen directly into Will’s lap.

“I’ll take you to the aid station.” He declared, then took hold of one of his arms.

“What?” Will squawked. “No – Blake-”

He fought his pull, squirming out from his grip and falling back against the tree.

Will had no desire to return to the frantic activity of the care near the battlefield. Didn’t need memories of the aftermath pulled back into focus.

“I’ve already been.”

Blake frowned. “Well then what did they say?”

Will hesitated, and Blake’s eyes widened, a spike of fear coursing through him.

“Scho, what did they tell you?” He repeated, tone a touch more dire.

Will swiftly quelled the worst of his assumptions. “Nothing Blake - it’s not what you think.”

The tension in Blake’s shoulders dropped a little, though the concern didn’t leave his expression.

“What is it, then?”

“I don’t know.” Will shrugged. “The doctor sent me away without so much as a look-over. Probably assumed I was lying to get out of here.”

“What? He can’t do that.”

“I don’t blame him. It’s a tried and true tactic these days. Can only have so many men wasting your time crying sick before you condemn the lot of them.”

Blake shook his head. “We’ll go again. I’ll vouch for you”

“They won’t tell me any different.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Will grit his teeth, agitation growing with each second this argument was dragged on.

“There’s nothing for it.”

“And there’s nothing wrong with getting a second opinion.”

Blake’s chin was held high – eyes lit with firm resolve, but there was no missing the desperation in his tone. Distress. Attachment. This is what he was afraid of. What he had wanted to avoid.

“Blake-” He started.

“You won’t even try! Here-”

Blake went to grab for him again, and the action snapped something within Will.

He already was at war with himself - one side of him begging for the comfort of Blake’s attention and the other, more reasonable side in rejection of it. He didn’t have the strength to fight Blake too.

“For fuck’s sake!”

Blake stopped, his hand frozen in mid-air.

“There are injured men there that are in far more need than I, not to mention vulnerable to whatever is I could bring to them. Even if that wasn’t true, there’s no cure to what I have, and if you had half a mind for your own health, you’d know to keep your distance until I’ve fought it off, or...”

The words caught in his throat, and there they stayed.

“Or what?” Blake held his gaze, and when Will was drawn to the fire behind his eyes - that stubborn tilt of his chin, he knew it wasn’t naivety or denial that blinded him to the possibility that haunted over both of them. They were no strangers to the passage of illness in the cold and dysentery of the trenches. No. Blake was daring him to say it. If Will declared what was on both their minds, Blake was free to argue with him until he was convinced that what was likely to pass wasn’t even an option, regardless of what little control he had over such things.

Will closed his eyes, slumping back until his head rested against the oak tree.

Perhaps he was cruel to deny Blake this, but Will already felt worn and weary, and there was really no telling how bad this could get. It would be crueller still to allow Blake to hope, only for that hope to be torn away.

Will sighed.

“Forget it.”

Blake’s gaze hardened, before he reached down and took hold of Will’s pack, pulling it from his arms.

Will relinquished the equipment without a fight, though he felt it necessary to at least ask, “What are you doing?”

Blake secured the straps of his pack around one of his shoulders, jumping a little to redistribute the heavy weight.

“What does it look like?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue, Blake… Are you going to return that?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess you’ll just have to follow along and find out.”

Will dragged a hand down his face. “Did you not hear a word I said?”

“Actually, now that you mention it, it seems I’ve suddenly gone deaf. Shame that. Here I thought I’d lose my hearing in some heroic feat out on the battlefield.”

Will stared at him with speechless ire.

Blake rolled his shoulders, getting used to the heft, then offered him a hand.

“Come on, then.”

\---------------

A wind was building up, the sky heavily overcast, and the promise of a Spring storm hung heavily in the air. It was with this knowledge that Tom found himself half-carrying Scho to a small dugout they could take cover in.

Scho was being characteristically quiet. Though at least he knew now the silence wasn’t altogether directed towards him, contrary to the taunting voice he couldn’t scrape from his mind.

_This isn’t the place for sentimentality._

He’d heard it from other soldiers. Not from Will. It had felt like another rejection at first, but he hadn’t really thought about it from Scho’s perspective. His mind instantly would go to worst case scenario.

Tom supposed thinking he was a potential danger to his wellbeing was reason enough for him to hide away, even at the detriment of his own health.

Well, fuck utilitarianism and fuck Scho’s pessimism. The logic didn’t sound one bit rational to Tom.

They stopped at a small, vacant hollow in the side of one of the trench walls.

Tom set Scho down in the dugout, then removed the packs that were pulling at his back.

Aware that he had trouble sleeping with his helmet, Tom lifted it from Scho’s head and set it at the foot of their resting space, before returning to undo the laces of Scho's boots.

Scho allowed him to do so, using the time to peer over Tom's head and eye the small group of men snoozing within his field of vision, a slight tension drawn between his brows.

“I’d prefer to stay at the tree.”

“Well I’d rather not have my clothes soaked through.” Tom replied, tone clipped.

He set the boots next to their helmets, then set to removing his own boots.

“Now, shove over.” 

Scho blinked slowly.

“What?”

“Don’t _what_ me - make some room.”

Scho didn’t move. Instead, he frowned at him, and after a moment he asked, “Are you taking the piss?”

Tom, not about to argue about this, climbed in. Scho though, regardless of his cooperation so far, wasn’t about to let him in without a fight, and their disagreement quickly dissolved into childish wrestling for space in the dugout.

“You’ll get sick-” Will argued, pushing him away. “Stop being a selfish prick-” Tom responded petulantly, catching a wayward elbow in his side as he crawled his way in. “I’ll go, then.” And Tom went from pushing at Scho to pulling him back in, stopping him from escaping. “Don’t be a tosser-”

“Can you two shut up!” A voice from outside growled.

Scho immediately went still and silent beside him.

Tom muffled the laughter bubbling from his chest, then went to settle beside him again, which inevitably restarted their juvenile bout of half-hearted pushing and kicking, albeit muted of noise seldom a few grunts and hushed curses.

The wrestling was pulled short when Scho’s knee came a little too high and caught him in the balls.

Tom curled over himself in pain and groaned.

Scho took a moment to process why he’d stopped, though once he had he put a hand to Tom’s shoulder and released a hushed litany of apologies. Again, Tom was forced to stifle his laughter.

Finally surrendering defeat (though Tom was pretty sure he was the one that'd lost), Scho backed himself against the wall and allowed Tom to settle into a comfortable position beside him.

Scho was breathless from exertion, and the remnants of amusement left Tom when he realised how much weaker Will had become – his energy and strength drained.

_What kind of friend doesn’t notice when his best mate is sick?_

A brief flicker of that sentiment must’ve passed across Tom’s face

“I should’ve told you sooner.” He admitted quietly.

Tom looked at the soil above them, before he took a deep breath, exhaled.

He rubbed at the silver of his rings – unsure if it was some anxious fiddling he’d carried over from his time at home or a nervous tic he’d picked up after nights of hearing explosions going off up above.

“Look…” He started, eyes moving to Scho’s, “I know I can be a bit of an idiot sometimes-”

“A bit?”

Tom hit him. Well – it was more of a tap, really, and a small, rare grin pulled at Scho’s lips.

“Yeah, yeah…” He drawled, “It’s just…”

Tom sighed, grateful when Scho didn’t try and interrupt - simply watching and waiting as Tom composed himself.

He wet his lips, brows furrowing. “I’m not a kid, y’know.”

He knew what the other men thought of him. Some of it was justified, true, but the war didn’t start for him yesterday, either.

Tom knew to an extent what he was walking into when he signed up. Understood the risks, even if he wasn’t completely aware of the magnitude of the horror.

“Whatever’s bothering you – and not just this - I mean any issues you might have with me, or anyone else… Your nightmares, your _family_.” Scho’s face shut down the same way it always did whenever the conversation bordered the vicinity of his home life, though this time he didn’t pull away. “Anything at all. You can talk to me about it, Scho. I can handle it… Might even be able to help.”

Scho didn’t reply. Face carefully blank.

Just as Tom began to regret his words, Scho opened up his arms, inviting Tom in.

“You’re not going to knee me in the balls again, are you?”

Tom didn’t wait for an answer. At this point, it made little difference to him. Tom sidled in close, feeling the soft rumble of Scho’s chest as he laughed breathily.

Once settled, Tom wriggled his arms around Scho’s sides and back, and felt a near-imperceptible quiver run down his frame.

“You alright?” He asked.

Scho was silent for a moment, then offered a short hum that was barely answer at all.

“You’re warm.” He explained quietly.

“Oh…” He frowned, “Are you too hot?”

He started to pull away, but Scho shook his head, stuttering quickly, “No, no- It’s not- it’s fine. I’m fine. It’s good.”

Tom stopped, then returned his embrace with a smile. He was doing nothing more than existing in Scho’s presence, but that didn’t stop the responding undercurrent of pride that ran through him.

“Good.”

\---------------

Tom found it rather difficult to sleep when his friend was tossing and turning next to him, body slick with sweat.

Even in the dim light, he noticed the pale tint to his waxy skin. Scho was shaking, eyes moving beneath their lids.

Blake didn’t get nightmares. Not like Scho’s. But knew well enough from observing him to know they weren’t pleasant.

Scho made a noise, strangled and anguished, and it cut through Tom. Made it impossible for him to lie by and do nothing for any longer.

“Scho?” He whispered, half-afraid of what would happen should he wake him in this state.

Scho turned his head to face him, but he failed to meet his gaze. His eyes were glazed over with fever – staring right through Tom and to some place far beyond. Tom wasn’t sure he was even awake.

He sat up and leaned over, placing a gentle hand on Scho’s shoulder. “Hey-”

The moment he made contact, Scho sprung up and his fist collided with Tom’s jaw.

It caught him off guard – hurting Tom’s composure more than anything else.

Scho’s limbs were long and lanky, but with so little strength left in them, Tom quickly and easily overpowered him, pinning him down to the makeshift cot.

“Scho! Scho, listen-”

Scho’s eyes were squeezed shut, and his head thrashed back and forth. It was as if he couldn’t hear Tom at all.

Scho bucked up against him unexpectedly, and Tom lost his grip. He didn’t move far, but he got out from underneath Tom, scuttling to the corner, his fingers gripping tightly around his head.

Tom watched, almost in a state of numb shock as he mumbled breathily, few of his words decipherable to the ear.

The only thing Tom caught was "It's not right, it's just not right," over and over again, tears prickling at his eyes.

Tom’s heart seized.

He’d never seen Scho so vulnerable. It was a general rule in the trenches for any emotion to be bottled up. Nobody talked about their feelings. There was an overwhelming, oppressive sense that you weren’t allowed to show weakness.

The illness, though, pulled back at those layers. Opened up and laid bare.

If he were clear-headed, Scho would hate this. Had always escaped into some hidden corner in the past to avoid being witnessed in such a condition; small and sick.

“Scho-“ He called, going for a calmer, softer approach, though he could do little to control the shake in his voice.

Again, he received little response. The delirious murmuring continued, Scho’s voice hoarse as he rambled.

“ _Will_.”

That earned him a short pause – silence falling between them as he was regarded with a glassy gaze through the fingers pressed against his head.

“Hey.” Tom swallowed, “Will, it’s okay, it’s me – it’s Tom.”

He kept talking in gentle tones as he closed the distance between them, cautious of losing the small amount of progress he’d made.

“Hey, none of that…” Tom said quietly, carefully taking hold of the hands Will was digging into his head.

Will allowed him in, and Tom pressed back sweat damp hair, the heat emanating from his head practically scorching.

He cursed silently, wishing that he had access to a wet cloth or something to cool Scho down. Though Tom wasn’t sure that was a good idea, even if he did have such a thing available. The night was bloody cold enough already, and with the way Will’s temperature was fluctuating, who knew how long it’d be before he was racked with chills again.

He resorted to rubbing a comforting hand against his back. Tom was no doctor, but he remembered what had made him feel better when he was sick as a kid.

Scho was tense at first, but slowly relaxed under his touch, tension releasing from his taught muscles. He held him there, speaking soft platitudes until his breaths calmed.

“ _Tom_.”

“Yeah,” Tom smiled weakly, glad Will at the very least had enough sense to recognise him, “Yeah Scho, it’s me.”

He took hold of Tom’s webbing, his grip iron tight. “No, no, _no_.”

The hope dimmed as quickly as it had risen.

“Have to stop the bleeding. You have to stop the bleeding.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. He was still hallucinating. Still delirious. Only now Tom was a part of whatever nightmare that haunted over him.

“I’m fine, Will. I’m right here, see? All innards internal. All in their right place.”

Will didn’t seem to understand. Tom guided him to lie back down, kept a circling hand at his back.

The mumbling devolved into disjointed and nonsensical sentences as he soaked in the physical contact offered to him.

Tom shushed him - not a command or a plea, just something of a reassurance, something to calm him. At one point, the sound fell to silence. Tom assumed he’d gone back to sleep.

He felt his head again, pushing back where sweat-slick hair clung to his skin, still dangerously warm.

Tom frowned, refusing to entertain the outcome they were both afraid of.

“I know you, Will.” He spoke quietly, emotion bleeding through his voice. “You’ve been through far worse than a little fever.”

Tom cleared his throat. “You’ll be back to telling me to piss off in no time, yeah?”

He looked down at Scho, taking the time to take in his features without fear of being caught staring, and was suddenly struck by just how young he was.

Of course, Tom had always known there was little age difference between them, but Will had always seemed so much older than Tom. Experienced and wise. Someone others looked to for guidance. Here though, he was the same as any of the other young men, plucked from his life and thrown into the trenches.

Compelled by some strange force Tom was unable to put name to, he leaned over and pressed a light kiss to Will’s forehead.

He lingered there for a moment, his breaths a light breeze over Scho’s hair, then, as he went to pull away, a hand at the nape of his neck stopped him.

The touch lit up nerve endings from head to toe, and when he leaned back to examine his face, Will’s stark blue eyes met his. They were startling soft and warm with affection, and Tom swallowed, an alarm ringing between his ears as a deadly sharp pang of longing arced through him.

_Shit. The heat’s gone and melted his bloody brain._

“I wish you weren’t.” Will stated quietly. “But I’m glad you’re here.”

The words took a moment or two to really hit.

Tom needed a second to process what he’d said before the meaning really resonated through him, and by that point the subsequent shock had rendered his body compliant as Will brought him against his neck, arms encircling around him and pulling him in close.

He was close enough to hear Scho's heart, beating rhythmically against his chest, but it was Will’s words that continued to echo between his ears, drowning out the voice at the back of his mind.

Tom relaxed against him, his eyes falling shut.

"I'm glad too." He breathed.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to all the wonderful people in the Devons discord that helped organise kisstober!


End file.
